


Definitely Real

by tenscupcake



Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Awkward First Times, F/M, Fluff, Prompt Fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-02
Updated: 2016-05-02
Packaged: 2018-06-05 21:16:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,302
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6723880
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tenscupcake/pseuds/tenscupcake
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When he and Rose fall asleep on the couch together, the Doctor hears her moan his name in her sleep, and struggles to maintain his composure.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Definitely Real

**Author's Note:**

  * For [jeeno2](https://archiveofourown.org/users/jeeno2/gifts).



> This was prompted by jeeno2 over on tumblr as part of my 4k tumblr awards from [this prompt](http://tenscupcake.tumblr.com/post/141574724649/otpprompts-person-a-and-person-b-are-sleeping)! I wrote it in like, record time so please forgive any stylistic errors. Thanks Amber for the quick beta! Hope you enjoy this silly little thing, jeeno, and everyone else :)

The Doctor wakes up after only a few hours of sleep, and as usual, feels perfectly rested.

He sighs to the ceiling, lamenting their circumstances a bit. Rose always sleeps so much longer than he does.

After the Wire, they had cuddled up on the couch in front of the telly to marathon Disney films. They both needed stress-free content to rid their minds of the disturbing images of the day (at the forefront of his being Rose’s featureless, empty face).

They had started out the evening with her as the self-declared ‘little spoon’ on the edge of the couch, but when she started yawning and threatened to fall asleep, he couldn’t stand the thought of not seeing her face the entire night. On his insistence, she moved to the back of the couch and he lie facing her, brushing his fingers through her hair as she drifted off to sleep.

He only spent a few minutes recommitting her features to memory, listening to her heartbeat and breathing slow, before he succumbed to sleep as well.

Rose has one of her arms against him, her fingers lightly curled against his chest, lips parted against his shoulder, one of her feet stuffed between his calves.

He doesn’t know if she knows this, but he quite likes it when they accidentally fall asleep like this. She’s so warm and soft and smooth. (He catches himself skimming the backs of his knuckles down her forearm, and pulls his hand back to rake through his hair, internally scolding himself).

He squeezes his eyes shut and tries futilely to lull himself back to sleep, because he doesn’t want to lie here awake in her arms too long. He’ll either get bored with the quiet inactivity and have to get up and find something to do by himself, or else the perfume of Rose’s skin and hair and the sultry heat radiating off her body will make his thoughts take a dangerous turn. A turn that involves swollen lips and much fewer clothes.

He cheats a little, beseeching the TARDIS for a telepathic dose of sleep-inducing tranquility, and artificially alters the circulation of a few neurotransmitters in circulation, and it’s almost working. He can feel himself beginning to drift off, can see glimmers of lovely dreams just on the horizon, when Rose calls out his name.

“Doctor,” she breathes.

“Yeah,” he answers, eyes flying open. He searches her face for some indication of why she’s awoken in the middle of the night, but her eyes are still closed, and her head hasn’t moved from its place nestled between the armrest and his jacket. “Rose?” he whispers, just to ensure she isn’t awake and simply slow to respond. He waits a few moments, though, and she makes no reply, verbal or otherwise.

Must be a dream.

Wait.

_She’s dreaming about him?_

What’s the dream about? Her little whisper was ambiguous and quiet enough that it’s difficult to evaluate, in retrospect. Is she shouting to him for help, in an adrenaline-fueled nightmare? Maybe calling him to a subconscious dinner she’s prepared? Maybe she’s saying his name in exasperation, in an imaginary argument they’re having?

Or maybe… no, it couldn’t be… what if it’s… what if she’s…

He gulps down a mouthful of Rose-flavored air.

No, it can’t be that.

There are a thousand reasons he would be in a dream she’s having. They live together, for one thing. Spend almost every waking hour of the day together. Not to mention he was the last thing she saw (and touched) before she fell asleep. He might be concerned if he _didn’t_ ever make an appearance in her dreams. It’s as absolutely run-of-the mill and ordinary as can be. Means nothing. And certainly doesn’t mean what the suppressed, randy corners of his brain are fantasizing it might mean.

So… why is her heart rate increasing? And her breathing becoming fast and shallow? Tempted by these preliminary signs, he allows himself to be lured closer, leaning over her neck as he draws in a deep, quiet breath, analyzing the close air above her skin for unfamiliar scents.

Oh… kay.

The heady cocktail of scents hits him like a lorry. Elevated levels of oxytocin and testosterone and… heavens help him that’s… lubrication.

With the assistance of respiratory bypass and the dark, empty backdrop behind his eyelids, he mentally backpedals before the inappropriate spiral of his thoughts can get out of hand. If he knows anything about human physiology, and he’s fairly certain that he does, the right brush of a blanket between their legs in the middle of the night can be enough stimulation to trigger physical arousal. And, if daily conditions are ripe enough with repressed sexual frustration, even a completely unconscious orgasm.

She could be dreaming about anyone, or no one at all. There’s no indication he’s still in whatever dream is causing this level of arousal. Humans can flit between entirely different dreams in a matter of seconds. If she were attracted to him that way, he would have found out about it ages ago. She would’ve told him. Other women who happen to find him fit certainly don’t seem shy to tell him so.

He’s detected arousal from his beautiful blonde companion before, but it’s never been when they’re in such close quarters, squished on a couch together, so much of their bodies touching. He needs to get a grip before the governance of his own physiology slips away.

Inhaling through his mouth only, he closes his eyes and tries to relax again. Thinking about the involuntary things Rose experiences in sleep is most certainly a crude violation of privacy.

He’s even thicker than he thought.

Breathing through his mouth only means he can taste the volatile components of her arousal on his tongue. Times like these, he curses his superior sensory capabilities. Self-control would be so much easier without them. What are human blokes even complaining about?

Against his iron will to resist, a familiar, faint tickling sensation arises in his groin.

_Shit._

He fidgets on the cushion anxiously, trying to find a way to hide the growing (literally) evidence of his dirty thoughts should Rose suddenly wake. But in doing so, he only makes his pants and trousers graze against his cock, and it twitches pleasantly as it swells ever larger.

Time to count Daleks. Cybermen. Slitheen. Yes, Slitheen will do, they’re hideous enough.

He’s giving a fitting name to his seventeeth ugly, fat, and farting alien when blood flow to his erection finally begins to retreat.

And the nineteeth when Rose says his name again.

Well, _says_ is an understatement.

The two beautiful syllables fall from her lips in a breathless moan, an octave higher than her usual speaking voice. The hand on his chest curls into a tight fist, crumpling a lapel of his jacket inside of it, as her back arches to bring her hips dangerously closer to his.

_Holy untempered schism_ , she _is_ dreaming that way about him.

He clamps a hand over his mouth to keep from gasping so close to her ear, and scrambles backward to remove his rapidly swelling, heated cock from such close proximity, lest something even worse happen.

Only to forget that he was already on the edge of the couch.

He tumbles off backward with no shred of grace, and as his arms flail out to find some support to break the fall, his thumb catches on the cord of the end table lamp, and it crashes against the wall and then topples to the floor a split second after his arse collides with the carpet.

So smooth.

“Wha’?” Rose calls out, her voice thick with lethargy. “Doctor?” she calls out again, only confusion in her voice now as she leans over the edge of the couch searching for the source of the ruckus.

“Yup,” he squeaks. “Only me,” he chuckles humorlessly. “Must’ve fallen off in my sleep,” he lies, a bit breathless himself. He pulls at his tie in an attempt to loosen it, fighting with his autonomous nervous system to get his breathing under control. It’s so bloody hot in this room his cheeks feel like they’re on fire, his face must look like a tomato by now. The light from the telly must be enough for her to see it, along with the noticeable distension in his crotch. How will he ever get out of this situation without Rose figuring out the truth? Without losing every last shred of dignity he ever had?

“You all right?” she asks, her eyes only half-open.

“Yeah.” He nods, swallowing hard, waiting for the moment she’ll see.

“We’ll fix the lamp in the mornin’, yeah? Just get back up ‘ere.”

“Hmm?” he squeaks, eyes widening.

“Come an’ lie down,” she insists, gesturing to the empty half of the couch next to her.

“Oh, I, uh... can’t,” he stutters, rubbing at the skin behind his neck.

“Why not?”

“I’m, ahh… wide awake. I can’t fall back to sleep now. And you know, there are just so many repairs to do…”

“C’mon, Doctor, your jacket was comfy, an’ I need more sleep. You can do the repairs in the mornin’.”

Does she not remember what she was just dreaming about? Does she not have even a vague recollection of moaning his name rather indecently only a few seconds ago? Can she not feel the blush of arousal painting her cheeks? The wetness between her legs that he can _still smell right now?_

She pats the space next to her, enticing him.

He can’t think fast enough to come up with a better excuse than time ship repairs. Not one that she would believe, anyway, aside from the truth, and he can’t possibly utter that to her face. He has no choice but to climb back up there. If she hasn’t seen it by now, maybe she never will.

He gets to his feet and maneuvers himself to sit on the couch with his arms (maybe not very) surreptitiously shielding his crotch from her view while it’s in such a visible spot. He turns towards her with both hearts in his throat, respiratory bypass in full effect, and she snuggles up as close to him as she was before, burrowing her face in his jacket once more, tantalizing him with a concentrated dose of delicious, warm fragrance. He pushes his bum out to keep his throbbing cock as far from her feminine heat as possible.

It doesn’t matter if she was dreaming about him. It still doesn’t necessarily mean anything. And the fact that he’s so hot and heavy and hard over it is frankly embarrassing to Time Lords everywhere. If there were any others. Subconscious desire and consent absolutely do not translate to their real-world, conscious counterparts. He needs to calm his adolescent reproductive system down, and quickly.

“Mmm, you’re not tired?” Rose mumbles against his clothes, rubbing her hand up and down his tie.

His entire body freezes, his eyes threaten to pop right out of their sockets. Touching. This isn’t their normal touching.

“Nope,” he yelps. He attempts to shake his head, but it turns out as little more than a controlled tremor at the top of his spine, pricking up the hairs at the back of his neck.

Breathe, Doctor.

No, don’t breathe. Smelling her skin and shampoo and sex. Not helpful.

“Doctor, I’m…” Rose begins, the words so hushed he starts to think he may have imagined them in his heightened state of arousal.

“What?” he breathes, his throat closing up making it difficult to speak. He doesn’t want to even chance ignoring her.

“I… feel…” Her breathing is shallow again, as it was when she was in the throes of her dream.

“What?” he repeats, even more quietly. Is she finally starting to wake up and realize the state her physiology is in, to realize what a bad idea lying next to a genetically blessed male _friend_ is if she has any intention of falling back to sleep? What an even worse idea it is to cuddle up to a turned-on Time Lord and expect him to keep his hands to himself?

Rather than answer with words, she drags her hand up the length of his tie until her fingers touch his neck, grazes his Adam’s apple with her thumb and brushes her fingertips along his pulse point.

He shivers uncontrollably, a shaky breath escaping his lungs.

Damn hypersensitive skin.

It’s the only evidence Rose needs.

Before he can register it has moved, her hand is at his trousers, just barely touching the lump protruding at the zip.

He sighs, a strange concoction of pleasure and fear.

“Rose, listen, it’s not…” he starts to defend himself, starts to form some coherent argument in his head for why he isn’t a complete pervert, but she shushes him.

“Me too,” she whispers.

_What?_

Is he dreaming?

“Yeah?” he asks, searching her dilated pupils for any sign of hesitance, but already so excited he’ll probably just die on the spot if she says no.

“Yeah.”

Slowly, carefully, watching her closely to gauge her reaction, he brings his mouth closer to hers and kisses her.

Time and space help him, her lips are wonderful. Gentle and lusciously warm. Patient when it takes him time to adapt to the unfamiliar sensation of kissing his long-forbidden fruit, and then supple and receptive as he finally tits his head to deepen the kiss. They both sigh as they find a rhythm together, fervent desire tempered by the nervousness that accompanies a first kiss. A hand on his jaw and fingers combing softly through his hair, she turns him to pliant clay with her every touch.

He might be able to go on kissing her forever, his erection forgotten, if it weren’t throbbing hotter with every delicate brush of her lips against his.

As though she can read his mind, Rose sets out to solve this very problem.

Distracting him with a swipe of her tongue across his bottom lip, she scoots her body impossibly closer to his, holds his waist with one hand, and swings her leg over his hip. An animalistic instinct in his brain makes him thrust forward in response, aligning their hips so his cock rubs against the crotch of her shorts.

She breaks their now messy kiss with a winded ‘ah’ that nearly makes him release in his pants right then.

He _has_ to hear that again.

It can be nothing more than instantaneous Pavlovian conditioning that makes him thrust forward again, hitting the same spot, but he still groans when it elicits another gorgeous sound from her lips. Splaying a hand on her hip, he shifts it back slightly until he can support her bum in his palm, pulling her against him as he pushes forward again. Another moan that she bites her lip to stifle.

He grunts out her name with a Gallifreyan curse. This will not last long if she keeps this up.

She wraps her arms tight around his neck and claims his mouth for her own, her lips desperate to devour his, her tongue pleading entrance to his mouth. He drives them both against the back of the couch, better leverage to grind against her at the right angle.

“God, Doctor,” she moans in earnest this time, matching the way she said it under the spell of her dream, and he nearly bursts with masculine pride.

Pathetic as it is to admit, he’s close enough that he might literally do so any second now.

Craving more of her noises and the blissful murmur of his name on her lips, he shifts his mouth down to her neck, grazing down from her ear to her shoulder, soft pecks of lips and rougher nips of teeth. Never faltering this torturous rhythm grinding against her center, and she starts to meet his timed thrusts with rolls of her hips, increasing the pressure where his zip meets the seam of her shorts _perfectly… yes…_

He mumbles another curse she won’t understand into her skin.

But then, with a string of cries of his name and ‘yes’ and ‘oh,’ Rose clutches her fists in his jacket and trembles beside him, her leg tightening around his hip. Oh, _cosmos_ , help him, she’s coming already. He’s _making Rose come_ and neither of them have even taken any clothes off. Here comes that surge of male pride. Given her an orgasm with nothing but his erection, with at least three layers of fabric between them.

He’s good.

Hardly romantic, but good.

But, guh… he wants to come, too. He’s so close, just… a few more strokes against her if he can just… shift down a little bit… he can get the right angle to…

Rose stops him moving with a hand at the button of his trousers. He pulls back slightly, panting with need, as she presses her palm against his zip, wrapping her fingers around as much of him as she can through his trousers. He cries out against her throat when she squeezes lightly. She builds delicious friction, pushing her hand up and down along his length, and a few seconds of this is all he needs to hurtle past the point of no return. He tenses as his balls retract closer to his body, and he groans out her name one last time before the dams break and the pleasure floods through him. And something warm and a little sticky floods his pants.

“Wow,” he groans, collapsing onto his side next to her, lifeless.

Rose giggles.

They both spend a few moments catching their breath, coming to terms with what just happened, how quickly their relationship was just altered forever.

 “So… that was…” she trails off, obviously nervous.

“Different?” he offers.

His cheeks turn rather red as the high of his orgasm wears off and he realizes how easily and thoroughly he lost his self-control for a few minutes there.

“Yeah,” she agrees with a shy smile. “Good different or bad different?” She raises an eyebrow, hoping he understands her reference. How could he forget?

“Good different,” he assures her, leaning closer to touch his lips to hers. “Very good different.”

She smiles as she pulls him by the tie for a proper snog.

“Maybe… uhm… next time we can do it for real,” she suggests, fixing a few stray threads of his hair that she mussed up earlier.

It takes him a minute for that sentence to register, what with his brain drowning in Rose’s affections and the circulating hormones that have resulted.

“Oh, no, Rose, did you not…????” He lets the end of the sentence dangle suggestively, panic evident in his eyes.

“No, I did!” she reassures him quickly, and he breathes a sigh of relief.

“Then… what wasn’t real about it?” he asks. Blimey, he really should have thought it through before he just pounced and found the quickest route to an orgasm. He may not know much about what women want, but he’s fairly certain rushing is not one of them.

“No, nothing, I just meant that… maybe next time there can be fewer clothes.”

“Oh.” He grins, very on board with that idea. “Quite. Yeah. I’d like that very much.” His smile falters slightly. “This wasn’t very romantic, was it.”

“Maybe not.” She shrugs, playing with the buttons on his jacket. “But it was fun.”

“It _was_ fun,” he agrees. His cheeks are going to be sore from all this smiling. “And definitely real.”

She just laughs, the second most beautiful sound in the world (the first he only discovered tonight – her moaning his name).

“Real enough that I think I need a change of pants.” He glances down at his crotch with an exaggerated grimace on his face, but she only laughs harder.


End file.
